FEVER

Poland like a dry fever on
the lips of an emigre. Poland,
a map pressed by the steam irons
of long-distance trains. Don't forget
the taste of the first strawberry,
rain, the scent of wet lindens
in the evening; heed the metallic sound
of curses; take notes on hatred,
the sheared coat of alienation;
remember what links and what divides.
A land of people so innocent that
they cannot be saved.
A sheep praised by a lion
for its right conduct, a poet who always
suffers. Land without sting, confession
with no mortal sins. Be alone.
Listen to the song of an un-christened
blackbird. The raw scent of spring is
flowing, a cruel sign.
Adam Zagajewski: Without End

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